


There's Always That Guy

by FreyaOdin



Series: Come Fly With Me Outtakes [3]
Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Airplanes, Aviation, Humor, M/M, Pilots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29430342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaOdin/pseuds/FreyaOdin
Summary: Scott's trip to pick up his new plane goes less smoothly than he'd hoped.
Relationships: Mitch Grassi/Scott Hoying
Series: Come Fly With Me Outtakes [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2058522
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	There's Always That Guy

**Author's Note:**

> A general aviation satire channel [posted a video entitled "Every Pilot Argument in Four Minutes”](https://youtu.be/NJpALVRF9mI) and I snickered at the references I got, googled many of the ones I didn’t, and then ended up putting Pilot!Scott in a similar situation because you may have noticed I’m mean to him.

“Hey, do you mind if I sit here?” asks a voice.

Scott looks up to find a middle-aged white guy standing next to the other chair at his table, looking at him expectantly. A glance around the lounge area shows that the other tables all have people at them, so Scott smiles politely and says, “Go ahead.”

It’s quiet for a few moments, the guy settling in, setting his coffee on the table and pulling an iPad, notebook, and pen from his bag. Pretty standard stuff at any general aviation airport. Whether it’s home base or a stop on the way, there’s always at least a few people having a rest or a chat or planning the next leg they’re going to fly, often while refuelling themselves just like they refuel their planes.

Scott’s here to pick up his new baby. He’s been saving up for years to buy his own plane, and he’s finally making it happen. It took him an extra year to find a plane he liked that was modern enough for Mitch to agree to get into it at a price point Scott could manage, but in the end, he found one. Granted, they had to fly halfway across the country to come get it, but now here he is, waiting the final fifteen minutes before the seller is due to arrive with the paperwork and the keys. Scott will check everything to make sure it’s in order, do a full walk around, take a demo flight with the seller, have a mechanic take a final look, and then fly it back to LA this afternoon. And tomorrow, he and Mitch will start their cross country trip getting it back to Dallas.

He’s still kind of amazed Mitch agreed to come with him, although it hadn’t extended far enough to actually meet with the seller. “Hmm,” Mitch had said. “I could take a series of buses and taxis out to Buttfuck Nowhere, California, and wait around a tiny airport with bad coffee and obnoxious lighting for some rando to bring me a plane. Or I could stay in LA, enjoy the hotel’s amazing spa and room service, and wait around for my husband to bring me that very same plane a few hours later. Lemme think...”

Scott smiles fondly and returns his attention to his charts, pondering which of the routes to and through LA that he worked out yesterday he actually feels like flying today. He turns his iPad to better visualize how his route choices diverge. He could go east of the Class Bravos, squeezing between their lower limits and the surrounding city and terrain. It’d be more challenging and give him a better idea of his new baby’s handling capabilities. But going around to the west would let him hug the coastline under the Bravos, which would be simpler and probably faster, even with the longer flight path. Better views, too. Scott’s feeling lazy, and the weather is fantastic. Assuming ATC will let him, he might as well appreciate the ocean views he doesn’t get to see all that often from such a low altitude. Besides, it’ll likely get him back to the hotel and Mitch sooner, and if he’s lucky--

“You’re going to want to learn North Up at some point, son,” the guy beside him says.

Is he kidding? “Excuse me?” Scott says, without looking up.

“Track Up is lazy flying. You’ll want to build up the situational awareness skills to be able to orient in your head rather than turning the map. It’s a crutch.”

The fuck he didn’t. Scott blinks and looks over at his self-proclaimed new mentor. “How about you visualize your routes the way that works for you, and I’ll do the same.”

“I’m just giving you some friendly advice so you can improve as a pilot.” The guy leans his chair back, like he’s dispensing sage wisdom to an eager young apprentice and not a fully grown adult who  _ didn’t ask _ . “You never know what’ll help get your ass out of trouble.”

While the latter point is true, Scott really hopes he never succumbs to the middle-aged cis white dude tendency to assume everyone around them is helpless without their profound insight. He contemplates offering his own ‘friendly’ advice in case the guy wants to improve as a  _ person _ , but decides the effort isn’t worth his time. 

Instead, he refocuses on his chart. “I’m perfectly capable of navigating North Up. But I find Track Up easier when debating route choices based on attractiveness of view.”

“I haven’t seen you here before,” Obnoxious Guy says, like that’s some sort of gotcha.

“I haven’t been here before.” And if this guy is a representative sample of the culture of this airport, Scott won’t be here again. Not that he expects to be often anyway. He’s only here because it’s the seller’s home airport. It’s a little out of the way for places he’s likely to visit, even if he ever flies the plane back to California.

“Where are you headed?”

Jesus, pilots are nosy. This particular question isn’t out of the ordinary for aviation small talk though, so Scott decides dodging it is more work than answering. “LA, today.”

“Complicated airspace.”

Massive cities with large international hubs, medium-sized domestic hubs, a heavy scattering of smaller towered and non-towered airports, and several military bases will do that. “Yep.”

“You instrument rated?”

Why don’t they just get out a ruler and be done with it? “Yep.”

“Hmm,” Obnoxious Guy grunts, like he thinks Scott might be lying to him. Why he thinks Scott gives a fuck is a mystery. Scott doesn’t even know why he’s still bothering to answer. Ingrained Southern politeness, he supposes. Too much of a habit to abandon entirely, even if he’s putting in the bare minimum amount of effort.

It’s clear the guy’s expecting to be asked the same question, so Scott doesn’t. He just takes a sip of the coffee he’s let get a bit too cold since he picked it and breakfast up at the airport’s café half an hour ago.

Once again, he’s reminded that Mitch is always, always right about coffee quality, damn him.

“What are you flying?” Obnoxious Guy finally asks.

“Today? A 182.”  _ My 182 _ , Scott adds internally, with not a little bit of pride. Or at least it’ll be his in another hour or so. A 2008 Cessna Turbo 182T Skylane. Pretty little thing. Modern avionics and comforts, but really just a roomier, faster model of the plane Scott learned to fly in and still rents from time to time. It’s not the splashiest toy out there, but it’ll be perfect for the relaxing pleasure flying and basic A to B transport he’s looking for on his days off. He can’t wait.

“Hmm,” Obnoxious Guy grunts again. “Tricycle gear and high wings.”

Yes, that  _ is _ the vaguest possible description of a 182. Scott’s familiar with how this particular conversation is going to go. He’d hoped pilots like this were going to age out soon, but it seems some less physically ancient ones are picking up the slack. “Let me guess, you prefer a tail wheel and low wings.”

“If it has a nose wheel, it doesn’t count. Especially if it’s a glass cockpit.”

Of course. No computers allowed because if you’re not using a compass, a stopwatch, and the Wright Flyer, you’re not a real pilot. This from a dude who’s emphasizing his points by waving an iPad around in his spare hand, the familiar ForeFlight app open for all to see. “Whatever you say.”

“Seriously, no autopilot. No maroon line to follow. That’s real flying.”

Honestly, Scott doesn’t entirely disagree with the point, although right now he’ll admit it over his own dead body. “I spent years flying an old school 172 with just gauges. I'm fine either way.”

“You should try low wing aircraft at least.”

“I often fly low wings.” It’s not what Obnoxious Guy has in mind, but a Dreamliner is a low wing, and thus the vast majority of the thousands of flight hours Scott’s accumulated over the nine years he’s been with American would qualify. As would the four years he flew ERJ-175s for Envoy before that.

Besides, Scott’s flown plenty of low wing light aircraft, too. He’s tested several Piper models, a Cirrus SR20, and a V-tail Bonanza in the last few months alone. He wanted to buy the Bonanza, but Mitch announced “I'm not regularly getting into something nicknamed Doctor Killer," and didn’t seem to care that Scott isn’t a gastroenterologist from 1973 with less than 300 flight hours and a tragically misplaced confidence in his understanding of how clouds work.

So, no Bonanza for Scott, but he’s still flown one and had a great time. Then again, it had a nose gear, so apparently it doesn’t count.

While Obnoxious Guy is trying to figure out which of Scott’s life choices to gripe about next, Scott notices a trio of teenagers hovering nearby. They’re not-so-subtly watching him, shushing and elbowing each other in a way he’s come to recognize as people debating whether or not he’s actually him and if it would be weird to ask. It doesn’t happen often out in public, not anymore, but the odds go up substantially in airports.

The bravest of them makes up their mind and comes towards the table, only hesitating briefly before asking, “Excuse me, are you Scott Hoying?”

Scott smiles, as kindly and naturally as he can manage. “That’s me.” Mitch says he handles these situations well, but he always feels awkward as fuck.

“Oh, wow!” The kid grins and beckons the other two forward. “Can we get a selfie?”

Scott agrees, getting up to take a couple of pics with the first kid’s phone, and then signing the back of their logbooks for good measure. It’s always surreal when this happens, every damn time.

The kids chatter happily at him. They’re all in various stages of learning to fly, and their enthusiasm and excitement reminds him of himself at their age. It’s kind of adorable. He says what he hopes are the right encouraging words, and tries not to overthink things too much.

Thankfully, no one else pays much attention to the fuss they’re making over him, and as they leave, Scott spies the seller he’s been waiting for coming into the rest area, a thick manilla envelope under her arm.

Yes, finally. Salvation from his obnoxious companion. Also a shiny new plane to play with and an impending hole in his finances literally the size of a house. But mainly salvation.

Scott’s imminent departure doesn’t stop his friendly, neighborhood busybody from asking a perturbed-sounding “You famous or something?”

“A little,” Scott says as he packs up his stuff. The seller notices him and points to an empty table that’s just opened up, and Scott nods, gesturing that he’ll be right over. She also literally winces when she spots Scott’s table mate, and yeah, that’s unsurprising. If this dude is willing to condescend to Scott -- another white guy who’s not all that much younger than him -- to the degree that he has, Scott can only imagine how he talks to pilots of other genders and ethnicities.

“What are you famous for?” Obnoxious Guy asks as Scott walks away, because apparently even Scott literally leaving isn’t enough for him to grasp that the conversation is over.

Scott contemplates pretending not to have heard him, but then realizes it’s the only question he’s wanted to answer the entire time. “Getting my ass out of trouble.”

**:)**

**Scott's new toy:**

****


End file.
